Percussion.
This morning I heard the tires on the road. Various vehicles, various speeds, various sizes, various stories. Tires turning over and over and over on the streets in various places. To work. Back home. Going. Coming.
Percussion.
My own steps taken at my normal pace. Early morning, common sidewalk cadence. Step by step by step by step.
Percussion.
Soft, sudden beats of the rabbit hopping in a hurry on the green grass.
Percussion.
A woodpecker’s syncopation, emphasizing every point being made in recurrence.
Percussion.
Regularity. Surprises. A clash, a crash,
a bang, a smash. Loud bumps, upbeat.
Percussion.
My morning steps slowed toward the last lines of my walk’s song, while other noise indicated energy beginning for those people in their strides.
Percussion.
I stopped walking and thought of a song with its own percussion. I listened to Rich Mullins singing about steps, imagining the cadence he hears in heaven.
